


She Who Comes Back

by ClassyBrainiac



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Bad Wolf, Doctor Who AU, F/M, Fluff, Reunion!fic, Rose/Eleven - Freeform, The Void, weevils
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassyBrainiac/pseuds/ClassyBrainiac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Pete Tyler never came back to save Rose? What if she fell into the void, but survived in a sort of comatose state because she was protected by the power of the Bad Wolf? People fall out of the rift sometimes, and they can end up anywhere. What if Rose fell out of the rift—and was found by Captain Jack Harkness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Via the Void

The night was quiet. The more well-to-do residents of the area would have called it peaceful, welcome, blissful, about-time. But the others, the more hardened, unsheltered, down-on-their-luck people—they knew it was not so. They heard the quiet, but didn't feel as though the usual, routine noisemakers were sleeping—it was like they were hiding. Cowering in fear of...what? No rats scurried in the dark corners, no drunken tune lamented about beautiful, haughty girls. The trash refused to skitter and whisper on the rough gravel streets, and even the wind was quiet.  
   
Like it was holding its breath.  
   
Then, the feeling swept over the area—affecting everything within a ten-mile radius. It made emotions go haywire, magnifying any and all feelings tenfold. All televisions snarled static at the viewers, who all either screamed with rage or sobbed with despair. Artists, slowly and meticulously painting their hopeful masterpieces, suddenly were gripped with an urge to scribble it over, obliterate it furiously with a blind rage of hopelessness. Those sleeping were abruptly and totally plagued with nightmares. It was paranoia, distress—something and anything that made all those fearful, angry, burning thoughts explode inside you and wreak havoc on your mind, your instinct, your decisions, attacking every moment you might have ever second guessed yourself.  
   
Then, within one dark, deserted alley, something began to glow.  
   
A jagged line—a crack—began to worm it's way across a dingy brick wall, bringing a distant thundering and foreboding. Blinding light seeped out as though the sun itself was trying to squeeze through the tiny, long opening.  
   
Reality began to shake. Everything began to tremble with fear and anguish as the crack, the awful rift yawned wide like the huge, gaping mouth of hell—  
   
Suddenly, a shriek was heard—a sharp, short, high noise that pierced the darkness like a pin. It was nearly lost in the wild thundering, but then a small, dark shape was flung out of the crack, ripping through something much stranger than brick. The shape hit the wet, grimy ground just in time for the gash to snap shut, falling in on itself with a bang that sent some sort of shockwave booming around it. Quicker than the forked lightening that flashed in the distance, the televisions suddenly regained their clarity as the viewers were abruptly motivated to recompose themselves, never to speak of such a hysterical episode to anyone. The artists gawked dumbly at the mess that was now their life's work, wondering why such mood swings had occurred. The hellish scenarios raging in the subconscious of the slumbering quickly melted back into dreams.  
   
Everything was suddenly and inexplicably normal again—yet, no one knew what had ever been wrong.  
   
Once again, it was quiet—except, of course, for weak, muffled sobs that came from the small shape that had escaped whatever lay on the other side of that rift. The sounds were ones of both physical and emotion agony, of palpable fear, of utter confusion and delirious bewilderment. It shifted convulsively, shaking and shivering in the cold, silent night.  
   
All alone.  
   
And within this tortured, agonized mind, only one single memory could form—only a few seconds in the whole of a life.  
   
Oh, and it burned.  
   
—•—•—  
   
"HANG ON!"  
   
She's being pulled towards something so strongly—her feet have long since left the ground, and she's grasping a single lever in the attempt to resist. She can only try to breathe through the agony of being stretched like sanity and try to anchor herself to this voice that screamed for her to hang on.  
   
And she was hanging on by her fingertips.  
   
To her horror, it wasn't just a mindless pull, but a calculated drag, like a man taking a draw from a cigar. It wasn't just pulling, it wanted her; it was concentrated on her and her very being.  
   
With one last wrench, one last sucking pull, she fell.  
   
"NO!" The scream was torn from him.  
   
She cried in horror. It seemed to be slow motion as she slowly fell to hell, and she could see every tear on HIS face. His wild brown hair was even more tousled by the roar of the hurricane, his big brown eyes were wide and scared, and she knew that she loved him with everything she had. "ROSE!" He was screaming. "NO! ROSE!"  
   
She locked eyes with him as she was close, too close—  
   
Then, her mind is wiped blank and she remembers...  
   
...nothing.  
   
   
—•—•—Cardiff, England. Eight Months Later  
   
His friend smiled so cheerfully Jack thought it was offensive.  
   
"Why are you so happy?" He snarked at Gwen, who raised her eyebrows in return.  
   
"Oy!" She snorted. "It's not my fault you don't have a girlfriend...or boyfriend, for that matter."  
   
Jack shrugged as they patrolled the streets of Cardiff, searching half-heartedly for any signs of life that may have been spit to accompany the massive rift energy readings that had been detected half an hour earlier. "And it's not my fault that those words imply commitment."  
   
They fell silent by some unspoken agreement as they journeyed on. It was eerily dark—nothing that bothered the two seasoned fighters, of course, but spooky all the same. The alley they ghosted along was slick with cold rain, and dense grains of fog clung to the few stuttering street lamps that provided only small, weak puddles of flickering grayish light in the thick night. Miscellaneous debris was lumped in corners and sides, skittering and tossing in the hellishly frigid wind chill. The two Torchwood Agents stiffened as they advanced, prepared for the worst.  
   
Suddenly, the noise came that sent the two's ears pricking and spines stiffening. A small whimper, or cry, the shifting scrape of skin on pavement, merely ten feet ahead. By some unsaid plan, Jack's eyes strained for the source of the sound while Gwen kept her focus broad, aware for any who might attack in the midst of a planted distraction. Meanwhile, Jack crept closer, gliding soundlessly towards the noise. The sound had come from the darkness, smack between two weak lamp lights, positioned right where the weak colorlessness overlapped and threw the space under a shadowy cloak. Five feet away....three feet...one foot...this close, he could see the form fidgeting weakly, seeing as it's sputtering survival instinct would be trying to spurn enough energy and will to flee.  
   
As this thought rang in his head, his foot lashed out in a vicious kick, designed to throw the creature into the light for a clear assessment—Jack jumped a mile in the air when he heard not a guttural, animalistic wail, but a shriek, a sob of pain...oh, God, this was a human being! The form jerked and was flung sideways, falling into the electric's dim relief—  
   
Jack froze.  
   
It couldn't be—it could not be! The figure was hunched in the fetal position, spasming with heart broken sobs and hiccups, but Jack could make out tangled, dirty blond hair in the colorless light, he could see familiar brown eyes staring up at him, uncomprehending and terrified—  
   
Agent Gwen Cooper had seen many things in her life through Torchwood, and if there was one constant in the life she'd chosen, it was Jack. He was a fact, a solid reality for them to anchor to when things were a bit too...out there. And she'd seen Jack in countless battles, countless struggles, countless heartbreak. When he'd faced a fully-fledged Weevil, he'd stood still and strong, his weapon aimed. Hell, when he'd faced any fully fledged demon from the underworld, rift, or variation thereupon he'd faced it without fear, his hands always, reliably steady.  
   
So one might understand the gravity of the situation:  
   
With a bone-jumping clatter, Captain Jack Harkness's gun slipped from his numb fingers and hit the ground. He fell to his knees, unable to restrain himself, spurred on by disbelief, the impossibility, and grabbed the shoulders of the figure, who cried out in shock, but Jack stared into the wonderfully, horribly familiar brown eyes and choked out:  
   
"Rose?!"


	2. Unbalanced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos and bookmarks! I'm new to ao3, but if you want to check out other works of mine (Doctor Who, Supernatural, Avengers, Sherlock, Star Trek, etc) you can go to my page on fanfiction.net. My name there is The Fandom Garrison.

Now, in a place not so far away, a lonely man wandered the snowy streets, his hat pulled low over his forehead, his shoulders hunched with misery under his overcoat. It was dark and frigid, leaving the roads clear of other people and clogged with more snow. For the moment, it seemed nature was content to have the only signs of life be the slender shapes in windows that lit the small, bright candles, the thin dark stripes in the snow where the occasional carriage had long since passed, and the plinking of an untuned piano within the noisy, smoky, crowded confines of a tavern.  
   
And frankly, that was how the man (if you would call him that) preferred it.  
   
Any fool who cared to glance at the man could see in his stooped posture that something aggrieved him—no matter if it was emotion or old age. Closer inspection of a normal, common mind may see the youthful brown hue and spritely curl of the hair that showed beneath his hat and conclude that he was, in fact, a young man, but no further than that. But perhaps the rare keen mind could discern that face beneath the shadow of his hat was prematurely drawn, as if burdened with some indecisive grief that had overflowed in his heart and was left to fester in his features, souring them. And this diagnosis was better than any quack doctor in this Victorian Era could prescribe. For this was no imbalance of the humors; it was sorrow and grief and guilt, pulling heavily on his cheeks and eyelids and making this once enigmatic, energetic, ambiguous man so very tired.  
   
"Oh, so did you build this, then?"  
   
The sharp, female voice was a wonderfully invigorating blast, like he'd just inhaled a load of citrus. It stirred him from his stupor like a pinch to a dozing man, and he looked up to see a young woman—presumably a bar maid—standing fearlessly in the alley's inch-deep snow, her hands on her hips, wearing nothing against the cold but a crumpled shawl that was thrown messily over her shoulders. He saw the snowman beside her—a rather disturbing thing, actually, its mouth drawn back in a leering smile with a mouth full of sharp ice-teeth. The man glanced around—it was just the two of them in the alley.  
   
"No, no I didn't," he sighed, already feeling the energy begin to drain back out of him. He kept his eyes away from hers.  
   
"Well," she huffed, annoyed, "then who did?"  
   
His high already spent, he didn't even bother to shrug as he shuffled past the girl's indignant, blazing glare.  
   
"Oy!" He felt a faint prickle of frustration as she jogged after him. "I'm talking to you!"  
   
Now, there was something, just something in her voice that was just so familiar he had to stop. He halted but did not turn, hearing her do the same behind him.  
   
"What's your name?" He asked slowly, his voice flat.  
   
He heard her small, breathless laugh at his seemingly scattered thoughts, but she answered all the same. "Clara Oswald." She almost imperceptibly said the first name more quickly than the surname, as if she didn't like it, or it was shameful.  
   
"That's a great name, Clara." He said, feeling it roll around his mouth when he said it. Oh, he was just so tired. "You should keep it." He hoped but did not really care that she understood what he was implying—telling her not to get too close to anyone, because she would just end up hurt. She was a strong woman—and he'd known quite a few—and he wanted her to stay that way. People had to be strong when he wasn't.  
   
She did not follow him.  
   
This man was the Doctor, and he was so very sad. He had just lost two of his very dear friends—the Ponds, as he so fondly called them—to the worst creatures in the universe. And the poor man blamed himself for the death of the two lovers, one of them having the first face his face had seen, and both of which had allowed an old, gaping wound in his heart to finally start healing. Amelia Pond and Rory Williams had seemed to fill the hole in his heart that had been left when he lost the one he loved most—but now they were gone. Lost to him. So, horribly lost. So the Doctor had cut himself off from the rest of time and space, turning off the phone, putting the TARDIS on rest mode...oh, the old girl was lost without her adventures.  
   
That, he reflected dully, was how he felt now. Lost, like he was wandering in a choking fog. Ah, he knew that ATMOS had yet to be invented, but if he closed his eyes and let himself drift far enough, he could imagine a time before this had happened...  
   
Oh, if only he could go back. Not just to his beloved Ponds, but to her, to...no, he couldn't say her name. It didn't matter, anyway. He couldn't go back to them.  
   
He continued his trudging, heavy steps until he reached the park. It was blissfully empty—he didn't care anyway, but it was nice to not have that nagging feeling that people might probably sorta get suspicious if you walk by and pull a ladder out of the sky.  
   
This he did, reaching up without gusto, almost without purpose. He grasped last rung and yanked it down, all with the air of someone who was all but dead on their feet. The climb up the ladder and the tromp up the spiral staircase were a blur; they melted together like...well, things that melt together. Anything with extreme heat, quick as you like! He realized with a sleepy start that he was actually, physically tired...ah, when was the last time he had slept? It was just last week...wasn't it? Or...was that last month?  
   
When his mind cleared, he was within the TARDIS. Her bright blue lights glared harshly like a mother's admonishing 'look' but the Doctor merely groaned, allowing his coat to slide off his shoulders and lay where it fell. He stumbled over to the console, his hat tumbling off his head from his rather rather drunken-looking motions. With one last wave of grief, he just draped himself over the console like a coat, closing his eyes, not caring or paying attention to the buttons and levers that were pressed or twisted by the weight of his chest. Oh, maybe that's all he was in the end, he thought foggily. An old coat, like the one his tenth body had favored so much, but was now useless, forgotten, left behind, and totally, utterly alone—  
   
He didn't even flinch when the TARDIS rattled indignantly, reminding him of her constant presence, and he absentmindedly rubbed his fingers along the smooth surface in a gesture she knew to be apologetic. He felt the presence of the blue boring-er (stabilizer) against the back of his head, and his cheek was pressed against the 'play' button for some piece of music he acquired over his many years. He knew it would play as soon as he lifted his head and released the button...well, all the more motivation to stay still, then.  
   
Yes, that's what he'd do...just remain absolutely...still...  
   
—•—•—  
   
"Rose!"  
   
Jack gasped as she wrenched away from him, sobbing hysterically, curling away from him and whimpering like a defeated animal. For a moment he was stunned—but then, the still-present survival instant whacked him smartly over the head and forced him to crawl towards her hyperventilating form. "Rose—Rose—!" He called to her desperately as she flinched away from him, wailing, refusing to be touched or reasoned with. He knew she was in shock, and if she had come from the rift then they were past talking it out. "Rose!" He yelled again, forcing himself to grab her flailing chapped wrist roughly, using all his willpower not to submit to her keening cries, and dragged her towards him. "Rose!" He snapped sharply, his painfully loud voice cracking like a whip, and at his command she falls quiet, her wide eyes gawking up at him as she—maybe—realizes who is. Maybe she actually knows him, knows who he is, knows what they'd done together...or perhaps just recalled a whisper of his face from her former memory and only recognized the fact that he was friend, not enemy. Either way, she let out a shuddering gasp and tackled him in a hug, latching on to him with everything she had, her body shaking like a leaf. "That's it..." Crooned Jack soothingly as he carefully removed his jacket, maneuvering around her tight grip, and wrapped her in it as well as he could. "That's it, Rosie. You're okay, you're fine." He wrapped his arms around her, both to keep the jacket on her body and to show his utter relief and amazement. "You're gonna be fine."  
   
Then, ever so carefully, Jack cautiously lifted the bone-thin, too-light girl off the ground, cradling her in his arms as he turned back to Gwen, who was staring with shock. Jack had to remind himself that she'd never seen anyone fresh out of the rift before.  
   
"C'mon," He said shortly, starting to walk as carefully as he could. "We need to get her to the hub."

—•—•—

For the longest time, all she remembered was...  
   
But now. Now. Now, things were different. She was awfully aware of the fear the screamed through her body and burst from her lungs and mouth in loud bursts of physical noise. She felt the hands grabbing at her, pulling at her—  
   
Oh, when she thought of pulling, her mind was assaulted with these chaotic fragments that burned in her head like shards of cauterized glass, reflecting and twisting too much to be clear, but it hurt!—good god, it hurt! She screamed with the agony of it all!   
   
Then, it vanished with some loud roar, some angel's scream, that drowned out the pain and yanked her back into the wonderfully freezing world. And she saw her angel and she acted on instinct, latching onto him and a feeling of safety washed over her so quickly it was almost alarming—but it didn't matter. By now, she was sleeping for the first time in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and tell me what you think!


	3. Messy Lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all kudos and comments!

Jack stood guard over the pale-faced blonde girl for hours until Owen returned with the primary blood results: she was suffering from severe cases of dehydration, malnutrition, atrophy, and...something else. Strange readings would appear on the scans—things that were shown to every member of the team, things that had them all coming up blank. All that Owen could say for sure was that it was a potentially positive presence in her body—it was actually repairing muscle tissue and strengthening her immune system by the second. If she had something like that running through her, then she had a fighting chance.

So now, five hours after arriving in the Torchwood base, Jack sat at the bedside of Rose Tyler (a glorified term for the hub's operating table), clutching her hand in his, almost unconsciously willing her to wake up. Her tangled blonde hair had been gently brushed out by Gwen, and the dirt patted from her face by Tosh. She looked almost the same as she did the last day he saw her—at Satellite 5, so long ago. There were small changes now, though: her eyes were more sunken, her hair was shorter, her skin was almost waxy, and dark bags were gouged in the delicate skin, glaring her utter exhaustion more than words ever could.

Jack heaved a sigh, automatically using his free hand to brush some stray strands of hair from her face. He'd missed her more than he'd realized—he had felt like his heart was being crushed when he'd read her name on a list of the dead at Canary Wharf, and even worse when he'd met the Doctor at the end of the universe...

_"Doctor, I just gotta ask..." Jack almost trailed off when he saw the Doctor's hard face become even grimmer, but he forced himself to push on. "The Battle of Canary Wharf. I saw a list of the dead...it—it said Rose Tyler..."_

_For a few horrible seconds he waited as the new Doctor simply looked at him, concealing unimaginable pain behind his expressionless mask. No, Jack had thought. No. He screamed in his head for the Doctor to break into a grin and tell him so cheerfully that she was alive and safe, even if she wasn't happy..._

_"She's gone, Jack." Horrified, unbidden tears sprang into Jack's eyes as he stared at the Doctor's cold, unfeeling ones._

_"I lost her."_

Jack sighed, rubbing Rose's still, cold hands. She was like a little sister to him—the little sister he never had.

Would she remember?

The void could do horrible, horrible things to someone's mind. Jack had seen more than one case of madness, paranoia...well, let's say that amnesia would be a kind consequence when he'd seen people dissolve into insanity, becoming mindless, screaming animals, left to the mercy of their primal fears and instincts. It was commonly occasional for someone to get sucked into Cardiff's rift—and they almost never ended back on Earth or in the same time—if they got spat back out at all.

But the one, awful constant that Jack had seen was that, no matter who they were or what they saw, people were never the same after they'd been through the rift.

Anyway, they wouldn't know anything until she awoke.

Oh, please, thought Jack, resting his cheek on the cold metal table by her hip. Please wake up, Rose.

—•—

"Oi, Jack."

The immortal man sucked in a breath and shot up from where he was sitting, his face feeling oddly stiff. Frantically rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he snapped. "What?" His thoughts flew to Rose. "Is she up? Is she okay? What's wrong?"

"Jack!"

The man's mind cleared suddenly, and he glanced sheepishly at Owen, who was standing beside him with raised eyebrows. "You fell asleep here. It's been about an hour, mate." His medical officer snorted. "Taking this big-brother act a bit far, don't ya think?"

Jack just shrugged before stretching and yawning. You have no idea, he thought.

"Anyway," Owen continued, "I have little miss Tyler's complete blood results!" He tossed Jack a folder.

"And?" Prompted Jack, his chest tightening with worry.

"Well, she's not comatose. She'll wake up soon, I'd say." Owen hesitated here, his dark eyes falling to his hands as he began to chew on his lip. Jack had been around the man long enough to know that this meant something was tormenting him. He continued, "And...there's more of that stuff. Hell if I know what it is! It's like it's been there a while—but get this: by the way that it's, err, completely integrated into her blood stream, I'd also say it's been there since long _before_ the Battle of Canary Wharf. What d'you make of that?"

Jack just shook his head, equally bewildered. "No clue. But how soon is soon? Like, will she wake up in an hour, a day...?"

Owen shrugged again, looking masterfully bored once more. "Any moment now, really." He eyed Rose, who was as white as a sheet but looking better than she had earlier. "How d'you know her, anyway? You never said."

Jack raised and lowered one shoulder, absentminded as he returned his attention back to sleeping Rose. "Complicated," was all he said, but he was really lost in his memories. To him, she would always be the girl who hung in the middle of the sky during the London Blitz, wearing a Union Jack. Who else could seriously say they'd done that, huh? He was vaguely aware of Owen's snort and walking off, but he didn't pay attention. Oh, he and Rose and the Doctor...well, they'd had such good—

Wait.

Jack felt everything in him just freeze. He backtracked wildly, torn between action and smacking himself to next Saturday— okay, he thought: him, and Rose, and the—

_The Doctor!_

Jack couldn't help it; he let out a yell of self-frustration as he stumbled manically out of his chair and sprinted up the steps to his office, taking them three at a time. He lunged forward and grabbed his phone, fumbling and frantic. His hands shook as he dialed—and he jammed it to his ear, breathing heavily.

Ring.

Ring.

"Hello?"

Jack almost shouted with relief. "Martha? Martha Jones?" He said hurriedly, starting to pace as far as the phone cord would allow him.

"Um, Martha Smith, now, but yes? Who is this?"

"It's...it's me. It's Jack Harkness." He chest began to ache with the very tension. What if she didn't have what he needed?

"Oh, Jack!" She said delightedly. "How—"

"Martha!" He cut her off, feeling breathless. "I'm sorry, but I need something, and it's urgent."

"What is it?"

"The Doctor's number—the TARDIS's phone number. Do you have it?" Jack gripped his hair with his free hand, his heart hammering in his chest wildly.

"Um..." He could practically feel her bewilderment on the other line of the phone as he began to bounce on his heels agitatedly. "Yes—yes, I do! Why?"

Yes!

"No time to explain!" He snapped, whipping around and scrambling through the surface contents of his desk, pilfering for a pen. "Just give it t'me!" He growled, yanking off the found pen-cap with his teeth. He scrawled it on his palm as she read it to him, ignoring the sting of the tip that braised his skin. No sooner had she said the final number did he promptly hang up—he would apologize later—and begin to dial the new one, glancing frantically from his palm to the keypad so fast it was giving him a head ache. Finally, he punched the call button, held the phone to his ear, and waited.

Ring.

Only now did Jack realize just how freaked out he was. He own gasps for breath were loud and heavy in his ears, and he ran a hand over his slightly sweaty face.

Ring.

Oh, god...what was Jack even gonna say?!

He managed to shove the thought from his mind, but instead if the next ring there was a tell-tale click—it was being picked up! Jack held his breath—

In place of a voice was a harsh cracking sound, as if the phone had slipped, and a deafening rustle—

"Hello?!" Jack nearly jumped a mile in the air, hissed in pain and almost dropped the phone when an unfamiliar voice blared through the speakers and shot his ears full of white noise. "Who is this? I turned the phone off! No one should—!" For a moments, there was a pause and Jack was too stunned to say anything before the stranger prattled on. "Oh, was this you?! Well, thanks old girl, just turn on the phone without my permission! Let any random stranger contact me—BUT IN CASE YOU HAVENT NOTICED, I'M TRYING TO BE _STRATEGICALLY ANTISOCIAL_!"

Jack could only stand there, shocked as he listened to the man yell and rage. The voice was unfamiliar, but the manner was oddly familiar, like he was talking to a wall. No, not a wall. A...a TARDIS. Wait—the Doctor...had he regenerated again?

"Doctor?" He spoke tentatively, unsure of the seemingly short temperaments of this new man.

"Yes?" Answered the voice brusquely, "What? What do you want? Who is this?"

"Um..this is Jack Harkness." Yes, he knew it sounded so clever but he was at a bit of a disadvantage here!

"...Jack?"

For a moment, both men were silent. Jack guessed the Doctor—if that's who he was—was struggling to decide if he was happy or angry that he had called.

"Well, what do you want?"

Jack couldn't help it—he was surprised at the raw hostility in the Doctor's voice. For a moment, Jack even forgot why he had called.

"I—I just...did you, um...you know—"

"Yes! I regenerated!" The Doctor snapped, making Jack involuntarily flinch. "Now, what the hell do you want?!"

"Rose!"

The word came and went so fast that Jack slapped his hand over his mouth—but it was too late.

"What the hell are you talking about?" The Doctor's voice was suddenly and deadly quiet, and Jack tensed instinctively, but pushed on. This was not how he expected this to go...oh, hell, just out with it, then. The words jumbled up in his brain and tumbled from his mouth out of order and breathless, like they'd just gone through the blender of panic.

"Rose, Doctor! We found her! The rift—it—it—she came out in Cardiff, and we found her and brought her back to the Hub! She's in bad shape—but we think she's gonna be okay!"

Jack finished and and grinned expectantly, waiting for the Doctor's yells of joy or exclamations of happiness...but he was met with ominous silence. His smile faded slightly. "Doctor?" He asked tentatively.

The only reply was the drone of the dial tone.

—•—•—

The Doctor had been rudely awakened from his console nap by the shrill shriek of the telephone, so shocked he had fallen on his rear end, scrambled drunkenly over to the phone, dropped it, recovered it, and answered it—only to then realize that he had priorly chosen to remain in solitude and had turned the phone off.

Even so, he listened impatiently as Jack prattled on, unable to hold back his self-anger and forced to vent it on his old-time friend—but then, Jack had said it—the name that the Doctor had hardly been able to think without losing control of himself. And Jack tossed it out so easily, so casually, as of it wasn't sacred.

And he listened, shocked and numb to the core.

"...She's in bad shape—but we think she's gonna be okay!"

His Rose.

Oh! That name sent a deluge of memories cascading through his mind's eye like a summer storm of warm rain.

It was almost too good to be true. It was too good to be true. It was far past shock, over and above even elation. If anything, he wanted to throw up—it wasn't possible. It physically wasn't possible!—yet there she supposedly was! He wasn't prepared for this. He didn't know what to do!

Honestly, he'd never been more afraid in his life—afraid that it wouldn't be true, and that his hearts would truly shatter when his hopes were ripped apart at his feet once more...or that it was true, and he still wouldn't be able to be with her.

There was far too much that could go wrong.

Now, over the years (and we mean the many, many years), the Doctor had adopted some habits that were constant with every regeneration, and some were good, and some were bad. Collecting interesting and potentially dangerous items, reading humorous comics, and inventing things before their time were just a few. There were others that were not so innocent, like giving something the chance to leave in peace before he killed it. And there was one habit, one little tawdry quirk, that he hated above all the others. Some people didn't like how they chewed their nails, or how their voice sounded when they sang. But the Doctor hated that when (it seemed) he finally had a chance at a better life...he'd royally mess it up. There was always something that would happen that would impede his happiness, and it made him so angry because it was his fault every time! He'd destroyed his own people! He'd hurt other people! He'd never told Rose...he'd never told her that...

He didn't even notice as he began to lower the phone from his ear. He wasn't fully comprehending, too wrapped up in his thoughts. But then he watched as one might watch a train wreck—unable to look away—as his shaking hand moved the phone back to where it was...and hung it up.

Just for a moment, he let himself breathe.

He had a choice to make. In all honesty, it was how he imagined it was taking drugs. He could allow himself that short time of unimaginable happiness, and expect a negative outcome that would be the straw that broke the camel's back...or he could stay here and play it safe, act like it never happened. Never knowing if his Rose was out there somewhere, waiting.

Oh, why would Jack lie to him?!

A yell of elation suddenly flew from the Doctor's lungs on its own accord as he grabbed the lever and yanked it backwards. The engines rattled gloriously to life, and the Doctor whooped with unbridled joy, feeling excitement fill his chest like a water balloon.

"Oh-ho-ho!" He yelled, feeling some sort of spectacular energy swell in his heart as he held tight to the console. "My Rose—my impossible, beautiful Rose!—the Doctor's on his way!"

—•—•—

_She dreamt of frozen waves._

_She was also lost, but that thought and worry seemed beyond her as she meandered in the towering majesty—an entire ocean, frozen in a flash, swelling waves halted in mid-curl, forever on the brink of collapsing into nothing, stuck in this delicate equilibrium. It was all around her, and she couldn't resist the child-like urge that warmed her heart and made her reach out to touch these masterpieces, running her fingers over the impossibly smooth ice, feeling as though she could numb away her fingerprints, have them fill in or melt or freeze over, wiping out who she was and leaving her blissfully blank._

_Oh. For some reason that sounded far too appealing._

_Still dazzled by the serenity of her surroundings, she made to reach out with her other hand but found it taken. For the first time, she was bothered, and turned her head to see a tall man beside her, grasping her hand, a leather jacket draped over his form, his kind gray-blue eyes locked on hers...and his ears sticking out like sore thumbs._

_That wasn't right. This man—this man was familiar, but...this man was wrong._

_She said so, or tried to—everything that came from her mouth sounded distorted and muffled, as if she was underwater. The man apparently understood, though, because he gave her a sad smile and guided her through the maze of pale, shimmering ice until they reached a gateway— a space between two towering ice waves that glowed with blinding golden light. It was hot—it burned! She resisted, trying to pull back and digging her heels into the ground, but he just dragged her steadily towards the gate. She was mutely screaming—she didn't want to go, she didn't want to—_

_But then, she passes through the brilliant wave of luminescence and and that tall, balding man is no longer with her, like he was washed away. Now, there is a different man grasping her fingers and—her heart leaps—he's HIM! The man she saw in her burning memory, with his wonderfully messy brown hair a and puppy dog eyes. Suddenly, she realizes where she's standing now—a lofty hillside covered in soft, springy grass, flying automobiles whizzing overhead as the wind whirls around her and that smell—what is that earthly, fresh scent?_

_She watches as the man grins at her joyfully before crouching and grabbing a handful of the greenery they stand on and pulling it out of the ground, offering it to her to smell. "Apple Grass!" He says happily, and his warm voice triggers slews of memories that hit her over the head like hammers and she gasps for breath as her knees give out beneath her—but before she hits the ground he's caught her in his arms. She can hear him talking but can't understand him, left only to decipher the worried tones. She wants to reassure him, but she's impossibly dizzy—everything tilts and rocks and she lapses into confusion. What's going on?_

_Then she feels that pull, the magnetization, and her stomach drops with dread as she dares to think that she knows what's going to happen. Instinctively, she grips the man tighter and he returns the strength, clinging to her for dear life. But the drag intensifies as she squeezes her eyes shut, and suddenly she's SLIPPING from his grasp. He screams words she can't understand, but she can hear the desperation. Terror fills her—she doesn't what to lose him again! But they're both holding on by their fingertips—no! No, no, no—!_

_Then she's flying and falling, wordless screams spilling from her mouth as she's lost in a roar—and then—_

Nothing.

Then, it's like she finally breaks through a fog, gasping for breath as she sits bolt upright. Instantly her muscles protest and she groaned, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her forehead on them. What had happened? For a moment, her head is fuzzy, and she thinks that she is still at home—in her mum's flat—waking up to go to work...wait, no. Her work got blown up, or something, by...by...

She mutters to herself as her mind struggles to surmount this mental block, sleepily combing her fingers through her hair—and she goes rigid as she finds it short—well, shorter than before her job got blown up by the Doctor!

The Doctor.

The memories—the regeneration, the trench coat, the traveling, the Daleks, the converse, the Cybermen, the void—it all comes back with terrifying clarity and she lifts her head, scared stiff when she doesn't know where she is. It's some sort of..base, she guessed, looking wildly around the seemingly deserted place. Trembling slightly, she slid off the cold metal table she had been put on—oh, god. It was an _operating_ table. Rose forced herself not to panic. How did she get here? How did she even escape the void? Shivering, she pulled her blue sweater farther around her, her toes brushing the unfinished cement ground. Her whole body felt like it had a net strength of jam. Concentrating fiercely, she planted her palms on the smooth metal surface of the table and eased her weight off the platform, slowly transferring pressure onto the pads of her tingling feet—which were surprisingly bare on the cold ground. Rose released her hold on the table—and he knees buckled beneath her. She braced herself for impact when a pair of arms darted out of nowhere and caught her.

She looked up at her rescuer—and nearly fainted all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and Review, please!


	4. The Beast Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the kudos and comments!

"Alright, I've got you," grunted the young man. He caught her awkwardly; grabbing her in a split second by grasping her in some sort of half-hug, his arms crushingly tight around her upper body, pinning her arms to her side. Rose's fear exploded tenfold by this sudden physical contact from a stranger and before he could do anything she writhed and yanked out of his grasp, her cursedly weak legs faltering beneath her and she tumbled onto her bum, her heart pounding; she immediately backpedaled, frantically putting as much distance between them as possible. She pressed her back against the cold cement of the wall that stopped her, trembling with desperately suppressed fear.

The man, however, just raised his eyebrows down at her, somehow managing to appear extremely condescending without saying another word. He did not have a kind face; his features were thin and as sharp as flint.

He sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically at her, and he crossed his arms expectantly. "C'mon, darling. I get you think you've had trauma, but if you want to get anything done you're gonna have to _not_ treat me like I'm a giant slug. I know I'm a bastard, so deal with it."

Rose could just stare him in the eye, shocked and bewildered.

He huffed again and extended his hand, acting as if it was huge effort. Rose tentatively took it, alarmed when he yanked her carelessly to her feet. What was his problem?

"Name's Owen," the man said, jerking his head towards the table once more. Rose carefully jumped back up onto it, careful not to turn her back to him. "If you can't remember details that you should, don't freak out cos' that'll be the amnesia. You may have trouble remembering events that happened roughly twenty-four hours prior to your initial contact with the void." He said everything as if he was reciting it from a textbook. "Now," he said crisply as he rummaged through a duffel bag, "what's your name?"

Rose's head spun. What? What was going on? She glanced up at him again to find that he was rolling his eyes again. "I'm just testing your memory," he drawled, tapping his foot.

"...Rose." She said warily, keeping her eyes on his with considerable effort as her head seemed to spin on her shoulders. She felt extremely woozy, and faintly registered that her voice sounded like crumpling cellophane.

"Good," was all he said. Rose got a sense he had already known her name...but how? Owen proceeded with the nature of a routine medical check up, checking her heartbeat, ears, and tossing her a bottle of water. "Now, this," he said flatly, holding a sort of cylindrical device in his left hand, "won't hurt a bit." He jammed it on to her inner forearm, and Rose yelped when she felt a sharp sting, instinctively trying to jerk away, but Owen had somehow grasped hold of her wrist and held her still. He extracted the device and tossed her a cotton ball. "I lied." He said dryly. His small eyes were like tiny black diamonds, and his dark hair was cropped short. He reminded Rose distinctly of a weasel, or ferret.

Rose could only glare at him as he put a sample of her forcibly taken blood onto some sort of scanner and a different sample on a microscope slide and leaned down to study it.

His back was to her, and for the first time her head felt clear enough to formulate questions. "Where am I?" She asked tersely, her voice clearer. Owen glanced back at her before adjusting the microscope.

"Torchwood."

Something white and hot and cold seemed to burst in her mind and she gasped as she seemed to be falling again—Torchwood. Torchwood was bad— _it was their fault!_ No, no, no! It was their fault she was _broken_ , their fault she'd lost her Doctor—confused rage boiled inside her head like soup in an overheating pot—

Owen whipped around when he heard the dull thud of the young girl's body falling to the floor, alarmed to find her on the ground in the fetal position. She was whimpering under her breath—words that he couldn't understand—and he gawked as her body began to _glow golden_. "What the—" he darted forward and grabbed her shoulder—

"NO!" She let out a scream and Owen found himself flying backwards, propelled by some great force, grunting as his spine smacked the wall, his head ricocheting off the cement and slapping his chin to his chest. A dull agony shot through his ribcage and stars burst in his eyes in technicolor glory, leaving him dazed. Faintly, he heard a shout that sounded remotely like Jack, unintelligible in his ringing ears...

"...Owen... _Owen!_ "

The man snapped back to life with a gasp, and Jack was kneeling in front of him, his eyes hard. "What happened?!" He demanded.

"That—that girl!" Choked Owen, and scrambled to his feet to see her still curled up on the ground, shaking. "But—there was this light—and it hit me—and—"

"I thought that's what I saw," Jack huffed, turning back to Rose. He kneeled by the trembling girl, very, very gently placing a hand on her arm. "Rose?" He asked softly. "Can you hear me?"

She whimpered again, trying to curl tighter on herself, but Jack continued to soothe her, "Hey, no, no," he murmured. "It's okay, you're okay. Hey. Hey, it's _me_. It's Jack."

At that, Rose blanched and her eyes flew open. She gazed at Jack, her mouth lax with shock and her eyes wide with horror. "J—Jack?" Her voice was a vibrating whisper. "What—why—"

"Hey. You're okay—" Jack said gently, but Rose shook her head and cut him off.

"But—but—why?" She pleaded. "Why would you be with them—with Torchwood? D'you—do you even know what they—what they—"

"No—no, Rose," Jack insisted, his eyes widening. "We aren't that Torchwood, I swear. That one was destroyed over six months ago. We've changed it, and we aren't gonna hurt you."

A million million questions pounded in her head, but she felt nausea suddenly swamp her in a dark haze. She groaned faintly, drowning into painful sleep, but Jack's voiced still echoed above her somewhere, keeping her anchored to a consciousness that was twice as agonizing. "Rose...Rose—wake up!" There was a sharp pinch on her upper arm, and Rose gasped as artificial adrenaline shot through her blood stream. Her eyes snapped open and she sat bolt upright, breathing hard, all of her senses suddenly on hyper. "Okay, okay..." Jack continued to talk, keeping her focused. "Don't worry—that was a just little anti-drug. It sort of just gives you a vitamin super-boost."

Her senses were suddenly racing over time, but she was still in a daze, like she had run a marathon and then chugged a cappuccino, like the kind she'd drink before work when she took closing and opening. She was vaguely aware of Jack helping her to her feet as she struggled to adjust. Slowly, her vertigo drained away as more people filled her vision—only about five total, really, but Rose felt slightly overwhelmed.

There was something nagging in the back of her mind, but she dismissed it. Because now she understood. She knew what had happened to her.

**Bad Wolf.**

The words burned in her head, calling to her, pulsing in her heartbeat, living in her mind.

A grin nearly split Jack's face in two as she stood shakily on her own two feet and he crushed her into a bear hug, oblivious to her blank face. "Now you can tell us everything from the beginning."

•—•—

The TARDIS rocked wildly as the Doctor whooped with joy, all of his pent up energy pouring from his lungs in an outlet of joy. Somehow, he felt as if he was a kid again—a fresh-faced ninety year old, ready to see the wonders of the universe.

His fingers were the color of polished porcelain; he kept a rigidly tight grip on the lever, holding it steady like his life depended on it—and honestly, the Doctor knew it did. But for now, he could push all the doubts from his mind for a few glorious minutes as the lights flashed overhead and the wonderful roar of the engines sang in his ears. He could even imagine, if he really tried, that Rose was already somewhere in the beautiful chaos. He could almost hear her ecstatic laugh within in the engine's voice, could nearly see the flash of the lights off her blonde hair and the brilliant blueness reflected in her thrilled brown eyes as she braced herself against the console just like he was now in a cheerful battle to stay upright against the wildly bumpy ride.

BANG!

The Doctor was shaken loose of his hold and flung down flat on his back as the TARDIS landed, and for a moment he lay there, stunned. Okay, this was serious déjà vu...

He burst out laughing at the absurdity of everything, still splayed on his back like an absurd turtle. He really didn't know why—he suspected it was because of the anxiety that was seeping through his joy, clouding his brain with doubts. He was a whole new man, now. He'd changed a lot since they'd last seen each other. Would she accept him? Would she be alright? Was she alright? What if...what if she blamed him for what she'd gone through?

He forced himself to shake off his doubts—well, the best he could do was bury them in the back of his mind. He'd think about it later. Before he lost his resolve rolled to his feet—Rose could be straight out those doors.

The very thought seemed to pin his feet to the floor. Why, though? Why was he so afraid? Even as he asked himself, the answer hovered just below the question—because he was afraid to lose her. He was afraid he would be rejected, and he was selfish—he needed her. He needed her and if she rejected him (which she really had every reason to) he knew he'd finally break.

Why did he somehow remain hopeful?

Because he knew Rose. And Rose wasn't like that. Rose was extraordinary—and she would forgive him.

She had to.

He forced his feet to move. The doors loomed in front of him, and he fought the urge to go retreat, making his feet carry him one step at a time.

_Rose Tyler, Rose Tyler..._

It became a soldiering mantra in his head. He stepped to the rhythm of it.

_Rose Tyler, Rose Tyler, Rose Tyler..._

It was the name that kept him fighting, and he fought onwards now.

_Rose Tyler, Rose Tyler, Rose Tyler..._

He was a step away from the door and his stride remained unbroken—

_Rose Tyler—_

"Rose Tyler!" He yelled it as he thrust the doors open—

He stopped. He stared.

The Doctor turned in a full circle.

He found himself in the abandoned former flat of the Tyler family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and tell me what you think!


	5. The Messes We've Made

It was eerily empty, and with a twinge the Doctor realized the complex must have sold all of their belongings when they didn't return from Canary Wharf. Dusty sunlight trickled sluggishly through the crooked blinds, and there were still hollows in the carpet where the furniture had been. Scattered over the stained threads were random, miscellaneous items—a pen, a stray, rumpled shirt, a plastic cup—standing as the remnants of a remnant family.

He remembered all the times he'd been here before—first as his big-eared, leather-clad ninth self, brought here while trying to track a prosthetic that was hosting the Nestene consciousness. Rose had just sort of pulled him in; he hadn't much time to look around. Then he'd been here when he'd brought Rose back for a brief time after their first adventures, just twelve hours later that turned out to be twelve months. He'd gotten a hell of a slap for that stunt. After that, he'd woken up in that room, just down the hall, after a violent regeneration. Good-bye leather, hello pinstripes, huh? Rose and Jackie had taken care of him—the first to ever do that. For all his other regenerations he'd either been alone or his companions had been scared stiff of him.

Then, there had been that last, blessed time when he'd brought Rose here for a visit—but then came the ghosts, and Torchwood, and the void, and—

His train of thought was forcibly derailed.

In a sort of daze, he wandered through the musty halls, taking in the yawning emptiness. He passed a room that smelled faintly of a woman's pungent perfume—probably Jackie's. He found the room where he had stayed on Christmas night—that dried up, rotting apple was still in the corner—and then he found a room that smelled of lavender.

His throat constricted. This was Rose's room. He remembered that he'd teased her for wearing such a smell—her name was Rose, didn't she like the smell of roses? But she said it was...what? Too main flow? No, no, too mainstream. She'd said it was too mainstream.

He'd just laughed, not having a clue what mainstream meant.

He dared to step into the room, the wonderfully familiar smell washing over him. This still lingered even as everything else was sold or vanished. It was a small space—too small to contain the life of someone like Rose Tyler. Perhaps that's why she went with him, such a long time ago—she needed more room to contain all her energy and life. And a new room wasn't enough. Hell, the whole planet wouldn't have been enough. She needed the universe, and all of time and space, to hold her infinite courage and vibrancy.

He closed his eyes, his mind whirling. Why was he here?

He forced himself out of the room and made his way to the TARDIS, who had parked herself in the living area. Sighing, he slouched against her, resting his temple on her warm wood. As he closed his eyes, images that were not his own flickered beneath his eyelids: flashes of neon hues that formed inverted colors in his mind's eye, vaguely forming things that made perhaps a little sense to him. He knew that these were this was the mind of the TARDIS. At this proximity to her, her telepathic field allowed her to communicate with him by using his brain to make pictures he could see. And if she felt some sort of strong emotion, he would feel it in himself.

"Why am I here, old girl, huh?" He murmured, concentrating fiercely. Two radiant colors bloomed at him, and he smiled. "I know. My pink and yellow human. My Rose."

At her name, he felt something like ice water wash over his hearts and gazed at a streak of gradient red. "I know," he said again, his own pang of grief striking his chest. "I miss her, too." He waited patiently as the red faded to the bluest blue and TARDIS made his whole body feel lingeringly lukewarm. "And you're still here," he translated to himself quietly. "Of course, old girl. I'd never forget you."

He waited for her next message, but all that happened was that the colors melted back into misty pinks and foggy yellows. He frowned. "What d'you mean?" He paused, but to his confusion the color faded and the presence retreated, leaving him standing there alone again, with his eyes shut tight.

He heaved another sigh, turning his back to the TARDIS and sliding down the side until he sat on the ground. He scrubbed his face with his hands. He straightened his bow tie.

His fingers froze in the middle of their work as he realized what his longtime friend was saying.

"Oh, my old girl." He moaned quietly, hoping his faithful ship was listening. His hands fell into his lap and he tilted his head back, ignoring the brief burst of pain as the back of his skull collided with the TARDIS. "You're right. Of course you are." He squeezed his eyes shut, painfully tight, and let out a shaky breath. The silence of the roaring emptiness around him seemed to swallow him whole.

"I'm still a coward."

Why hadn't he been able to move? Why had he almost decided to disregard Jack's call altogether? He'd defended himself automatically, thinking that he just didn't want to get hurt again, and he didn't want to lose anyone else like he had lost the Ponds. And when he had chosen to follow the call—to go to Rose, no matter how impossible—he'd even admitted that he was selfish for wanting to take her with him.

But, no.

This was much worse than that.

He was afraid. And no matter what all those humans said about it being shameless to be afraid—that was assuming you could conquer your obstacle even though you were scared. But he—the Doctor—never really conquered things. He ran from them.

Maybe that was why he was here. Maybe the TARDIS, with her telepathy, had felt the fear buried deep in his hearts and brought him here, avoiding the source of his terror.

If he laid it out flat for himself, a few things were plain. While he dreaded rejection from anyone he cared for, being cast out by Rose was always one of his greatest fears. In his ninth and even tenth self he had found himself needing her approval, craving her happiness, basking in her adoration. He'd made it his livelihood, his hobby, his job to inspire positive emotions, to please her. It had been blissfully easy to leap into such a habit...

...and with one slip-up, one mistake, and it had been torn from his fingers.

He admitted it—at first he was lost without her, almost like an addict who was suddenly out of supplies, or a faithful dog who had strayed from its owner. Eventually, he'd found a kind of existence again—floundering through life, tearing it at the heart strings, leaving bruises in his wake. He blamed himself for condemning her to hell.

And now, he was just afraid to risk it. He was absolutely horrified and cowed by the possibility that she would also blame him, that she would hate him, and he knew he wouldn't be able to deal with his curse any longer—but that he would have to go on living with it.

In one plain simple sentence that even he could understand:

He would rather have her dead and loving him than alive and hating him.

He wasn't sure—he wasn't sure of anything, really, but that had to be it. That was the only explanation to why he felt this way—why he wouldn't jump at the chance to see the girl he loved again, why he was so afraid of it. He was a horrible creature. He'd never really seen it before, but he guessed that this was the monster that was synonymous with his name. Why...why even go back to Rose if all he did would be coming in to destroy her life again? Even if she was in this universe (oh, his hearts jolted painfully at the thought) she was better off without him...

Out of nowhere there was a rattling bang and the Doctor's eyes shot open as agony burst in his head. The TARDIS was shaking; the violent contact with the Doctor's skull wasn't the only injury. The yellowed walls of the apartment quivered with the strain of the convulsing machine and his whole body was vibrating with it. Blind panic seized his instincts; he bodily shoved himself through the doors of his ship and scrambled to the console, struggling wildly to keep his footing. He latched onto the first thing that he found—the lever that would launch the ship into flight; it was all he could do to refrain from engaging it as the TARDIS's seizure continued. He had to get it into the vortex—he had no idea what was going on, but whatever was happening to the TARDIS there would more likely than be not be an aftershock or physical consequence because—oh, what was going on?! Some sort of engine meltdown? No, there were no warning lights or blaring alarm—that's what would happen, right?

But it just seemed as if the TARDIS had gone absolutely MAD and THOUGHT SHE WAS A BLENDER!

The Doctor blindly reached in the direction of the navigation matrix—he needed to set coordinates for the vortex—as the TARDIS lurched back and forth beneath his feet. His fingers scrabbled for the roller, trying to grasp the slick surface—

A sudden rebounding shockwave twisted him painfully sideways and his fingers grazed the dial as his feet slipped out from under him, contorted into random coordinates that could take him anywhere. He tried instinctively to keep his footing—but he realized he was still gripping the flight lever—he released it an instant too late—and he was thrown violently away by the very force. The floor lunged up out of nowhere in a sea of grating and slammed into him, colliding with his temple hard—too hard—and blackness crashed over him in roaring clatter.

—•—•—

_"I may not have always taken you where you wanted to go—but I have always taken you where you needed to go."_

—•—•—

Jack waited for an instant—and the silence hung in the air an instant too long.

He pulled back from his hugging position, frowning at Rose's vacant look. That was odd—if he remembered her, then she'd be talking his ear off like there was no tomorrow. But she simply stared at something over his shoulder, her face pale and blank.

"Rose?" He prompted gently, squeezing her shoulders slightly. She blinked at him as if she just realized he was there.

"Jack," she said numbly. "I...it's..."

"What?" He asked, concerned, ignoring the impatient to confused looks of his coworkers at his mysterious friend's behavior. Very gently, he guided Rose over to a chair and carefully sat her down before taking her hands in his and kneeling down in front of her. "Rosie," he said, a bit firmer. "How about this—tell us the first thing you remember after you...went into the void."

Rose regarded him blankly. "Nothing," she said in a thin, wispy voice.

A surge of determination pulsed through Jack. "C'mon, Rosie," he encouraged. "Just try to—"

"No, Jack," she cut across him, her eyes suddenly wide. "I remember nothing." She said it urgently. "I remember the nothingness."

And then Jack understood. His hands tightened around hers. "That's what it's like?" He whispered, horrified for his friend. "It's just...nothing?"

"Nothing," she confirmed, her voice shaking slightly. "God, Jack—it's just there. No sound, no feeling, no smell, no color...it's like being deaf and blind and unfeeling—"

"Well—we don't have to talk about that," said Jack quickly. "We can—"

"But it's important," she insisted, her eyes wide. "Because that's how I survived!"

There's something about the way she says it that captures Jack's attention—how Rose talks as if she both dreads and revels in what she is about to say.

"...what do you mean?" He says, and for some reason he's not sure he wants to know.

"The Bad Wolf."

She whispered it with both horror and awe—and she looked terrified. Absolutely terrified of what she could do. Jack knew what it was—basically—but the Doctor had told him what Rose had done with that power. She'd destroyed a whole fleet of Daleks, saved the Doctor's life—she'd brought him, Jack, back to life. Eternally, at that. What else could she do?

For a pregnant moment, Jack was tempted. He felt a pulse of ambition, of excitement, to find out just how much she could do—then he met her scared, wide eyes and it crashed around him, bringing a wave of shame. How could he do that? He could he even think of betraying her trust like that?

He saw the utter anguish filling her eyes and acted on impulse. "Rose," he said earnestly, squeezing her hands even tighter, giving her something else to focus on. "You need to concentrate, okay?" To his shock, he saw a fleck of gold flash in her eyes and fought down his mounting panic as he realized what was wrong. She was stressed—her body was trying to cope under duress, and the power she held was beating just below the surface. She couldn't fight what was bothering her, and she couldn't run—and the next outlet would be an unintentional explosion of the Bad Wolf. Who knew what damage that could do?

"Rose," he said again, cutting his eyes frantically across to Ianto but not moving his head. His friend got the message and seized Owen and Tosh's arms, dragging them away and forcing Gwen to follow. "Rose, just listen to me. I know you're scared of it—I am too. Look!" He twisted his wrist so her fingertips rested on his inner arm, feeling the rapid throb of blood in veins. But instead of calming down, her eyes widened further and she stuttered out, "Oh, God..."

Jack's heart raced as he racked his brain, frantically searching for some way to soothe her. The little blast of power Owen had encountered was nothing compared to what could be coming...

"Jack!" Rose yelped in shock as she stared at her own hands. Jack followed her gaze and recoiled when he saw the veins beneath her translucent skin were glowing brilliantly gold, like her hands were tangled in thin sparkling threads. Her breaths began to come in rasps as terror corroded her senses.

Jack was at a loss. "You—you need to—" his head spun, and Rose's light began to grow blinding.

"Jack!" She yelled desperately, and he could feel her terror leaking into her voice.

"You need to think of the Doctor!" The words burst from Jack's mouth in a moment of fear—but he began to build on it as the blinding light lessened—fractionally, minimally, negligibly—but still lessened.

"Think of him, Rose! You don't have to be scared!" Jack was roaring over the scream of the light. "Think of the Doctor! The TARDIS!" The light was so intense it drove Jack to his knees and he was forced to kneel on the ground, trying to shield his head—

Then it fell away as if someone had snuffed out a candle.

Jack cautiously lifted his head to see Rose's head bowed, her eyes squeezed shut tightly, her hands clenched into fists...and completely normal.

A breathy laugh escaped Jack's lips. "You did it," He sighed.

Slowly, she blinked her eyes open and relaxed. "Yeah."

"Hey."

Rose blinked again and looked up to meet his baby blue eyes. He gripped her hands once again, squeezing tightly and firmly.

"Rosie." He said quietly. "Everything is going to be okay."

He saw doubt cloud her eyes and he pushed on stubbornly. "I promise. Everything will be fine. We'll find him, I swear. But in the meantime—don't worry." His eyes searched hers imploringly. "Please don't. Because I'm gonna take care of you."

He pulled her into a hug, securing his arms around her when he felt her body begin to shake with silent sobs.

"I promise." He whispered again. "I'll never leave you behind."


	6. Reunited

The Doctor opened his eyes. "Reverse the polarity of the Jammie Dodger!"

He sucked in a breath and sat bolt upright, his hearts pounding. What...the TARDIS!

He scrambled to his feet and stumbled to the console, ignoring the drumming ache in his head, and gazed into the image that flickered to life on the scanner.

He gawked at what he saw, glancing once, twice, and three times at the actual coordinates to make sure he wasn't going mad.

He was in _Cardiff_.

Right over the rift.

2010.

For an instant, he was overwhelmed. For an instant, he felt like he was going to explode.

He ran out of the doors, unbelieving, stumbling into the brilliant sunlight and wincing when the harsh light hit him. He turned around wildly, baffled to see humans going about their day, tourists laughing and taking pictures, natives cheerfully carrying on their routine. Their chatter surrounded him—what was he doing here? Why would the TARDIS bring him to Cardiff?

—•—•—

"JACK!" Owen exploded through the door, eyes wild. "Jack! It just--"

"Whoa, what? Owen, _what_?" Jack tried to yell over Owen's frantic stammering and Rose winced quietly.

"I swear—I just appeared—it wasn't there, then it was—"

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Just—just come _look_!"

Jack glanced at Rose, torn, but she gestured for him to go ahead, smiling slightly.

"I'll be right back," he promised, and followed Owen to the hub's surveillance cams, which were located above the hub in the lobby. Owen grabbed his forearm and yanked him forward when they exited the lift, dragging him over to Ianto, who was staring at the screens as if they'd just shown him the meaning of life. 

"Now what is this?" snapped Jack impatiently.

He looked expectantly at Ianto, but his most level headed team member just pointed numbly to live feed 3, which was just a few hundred yards from the rift and canvassed a clear view of the entire plaza.

Jack saw.

Jack stared.

Jack said, "No freaking way."

Ianto was pointing at a blue phone box.

He watched in utter amazement as the door swung open and an unfamiliar man staggered out, looking rather drunk, one hand pressed over his temple as if his head ached. They watched as he stumbled in the late morning sun, blinking and disoriented, turning on the spot in circles as if he couldn't fathom where he was. His clothing didn't help—from what they could see on the low-res feed he was dressed in a heavy black overcoat with rather an old fashioned outfit underneath. Why was he dressed like a Victorian?

But Jack's mind was spinning. This had to be the Doctor. Jack knew he'd regenerated— But how? Why? Last time Jack had seen him, he'd been with Donna, planning to drop Jackie Tyler and the Meta-crisis back in the parallel universe. Oh, that was a bad memory—he remembered (as they all would) that Jackie Tyler had been nothing short of murderous with the Doctor then, blaming him for the death of her daughter (That's what she'd been told—that Rose had died. Better that than the reality that she was trapped in an eternal hell). The second they were safe and free from Davros she'd started screaming at him and slapping the living day lights out of him, a whirl of furious maternal rage—and he hadn't even resisted, he'd just stood there looking at her as she hit him and yelled with the look of a man who had no reason to keep his feet on the ground.

What had changed beside his appearance?

Jack gritted his teeth.

He turned on heel and sprinted out of the doors, wincing at the harsh sunlight, but jogged towards the bright blue box and the disgruntled man next to it.

"Doctor!" He yelled, and to his relief, the man turned towards his voice.

"Jack?" He asked, and the immortal suppressed a grin at this new voice. This close, he could see a bow tie, dark green eyes, the floppy brown hair—

"Still not ginger?"

He expected the Doctor to take the bait, but instead he just limped towards Jack, his face pale.

"Is she here?" He asked, his voice hoarse and shaky. "Please tell me she's here."

Jack cringed at the raw agony in his voice. "Yes." Was all he could say. There was something uncomfortable between them—the ease that had once been between them was gone. He jerked his head, and the Doctor followed him back to the lobby. They both ignored the curious stares of Ianto and Owen, simply trooping into the lift and going down.

Jack couldn't help but stare at this new man as they went slowly down in silence. His face was younger and rounded—maybe _goofy_ was the right word—but his green eyes were unnaturally dark. His posture was slumped, and his face was too pale. It was very...wrong. He was missing the energy, the spark that made him...Doctor.

"Are you okay?" It was a lame question, but it was all Jack could think of to say. So many questions, so many unsaid things hung in the air between them like thick smoke. He really didn't even expect a response, so he was a little surprised when he just started talking.

He told Jack—probably just in one, very long sentence—about his friends, Amy and Rory, how he'd lost and how he'd been staying in Victorian London and all this muttering about feelings—

And then the doors opened and the Doctor's voice stopped in his throat.

—•—•—

The Doctor's head hurt. His throat ached. His eyes were puffy and heavy and he really just felt like he needed to die for a while.

But then he saw Rose—and it all melted away.

She was beautiful. That was his first impression. She was sitting on a metal table, looking the exact same as she did on the day he last saw her and she was so beautiful. How could he have not noticed that from the moment he saw her?

Then she notices him and looks up, meeting his eyes and he's gone weak at the knees because he never realized how much he missed that warm, golden brown of her eyes. She looks quizzical—she doesn't recognize him, he realizes—but all he can do is stare.

He vaguely registers that Jack is talking—then, like he's in a dream he's suddenly before her, her warm cheeks cupped in his hands and their faces inches apart. She's here—she's alive and here and they can stay together and he doesn't have to be alone—

"Doctor." All of his scattered thoughts freeze and drop from his mind as she whispers his name, not a question, but a fact.

"Rose." Is all he can say, and he feels a wonderful tide of warmth in his hearts as he finally says it out loud, saying it to her, because she's real—

And then her arms are wrapped around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder and his arms tightly around her and she's warm and alive and real.

Finally he's overwhelmed and he can't think—he wants to tell her so much, wants to let her know how much he loves her how much he needs her how much—no.

Because he knows how much.

Everything.

She's everything.

So the Doctor lets himself hold her, let's go of his guilt because it's not there anymore—only she is. Because she's everything, and he's a bloody idiot for not realizing it sooner. There's no anger or fear or worry or stress or even purpose—it's only Rose.

And Rose is his purpose.


	7. Syndetic

The Doctor didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do, even. But he clearly could think something—and right now, it was a single word, a single image, a single object—

 _Rose_.

He was, perhaps, vaguely aware of the others exiting the room, but he hardly cared why. All he could focus on, all he could think about—was his Rose. He'd seen stars die, planets burn, whole civilizations rise and fall..and to him there was nothing more magnificent than Rose.

 _His_  Rose.

He braced himself—this was it. This was the moment of truth. He pulled back slightly, looking her straight into her beautiful brown eyes, but still keeping her in his grasp—he wouldn't dare let her go now—and forced down his rising anxiety. There was something he needed to say, and by Rassilon, he was going to say it.

"Rose, I—" he had to stop for a moment, reveling in the sweet taste of her name on his tongue. His hearts leapt wonderfully as she smiled blindingly, her arms unlinking from around his neck and squeezing his shoulders, encouraging him to speak. He drew strength from her touch, and took a deep breath. "Rose—oh,  _Rose_..." He says, his hearts suddenly swelling with unimaginable joy. "I—"

Suddenly, something happened fast—so incredibly fast that even the Doctor's hyper-conductive cognitive abilities took a moment to piece it all together.

The words were there—they perched precariously on the topmost point of his tongue. But suddenly, Rose's face twisted in fear and her fingers constricted painfully, digging into his shoulders so fast he flinched. But just as fast, she slammed her palms into him, sending him pitching face-up towards the floor—and as he hit the ground a brown blur flew above him in a flash of brown. But the Doctor couldn't even ponder this, for less than an instant later—

Rose's scream pierced him like a bullet.

Mixed in with her cry was some sort of feral snarling that didn't belong to her—a horrible ripping of something that sounded like cloth and flesh--the Doctor was on his feet but what he saw would haunt him for the rest of his lives.

His Rose was pinned to the table, trapped beneath a humanoid creature with a coat of short bristling brown hair. Claws like spears of bone dug into her skin until it split and blood of the most vivid crimson poured from the abrasions. It's face was a horrid hybrid—it's head was was shaped like a hairless human's, it had the slitted black eyes and flat nostrils of a snake, and the deadly, scissor-sharp teeth of a rat—teeth that were latched into Rose's neck—there was an awful spurt of red liquid—Rose's eyes  _rolled_  back in her head—and the Doctor could just stare, every bone frozen in terror, unable to move, unable to—

_BANG!_

The Doctor whipped around— There was Jack, eyes wide...and the gun held unwavering in his hands.

Again, the Doctor turned and stared in shock as the creature shrieked its last and rolled off Rose's limp form. Rose, no longer held in place, fell. The Doctor watched as she fell almost gracefully, her arms curving around her in a silent beauty—

And time resumes its normal pace.

Mobility restored, the Doctor lunged forward, cradling Rose in his arms. Hands shaking, he pulled her into his lap as reality set in. Her breaths rattled weakly as her chest struggled to rise. She was pale, like porcelain, like the exact shade of the fifteenth moon of Pierre Five—except for the dark red splash on her neck, nestled between her right ear and right shoulder.

It was a fatal wound.

The Doctor's head rang with the word.  _Fatal. Fatal. Fatal._

_No. No! She couldn't!_

"Rose!" He gasped, finding the ability to speak hiding under tongue. "Oh—oh, my Rose. No. No,  _no_ ," He pleaded. "Please.  _Please_  don't leave me. I—I  _can't_  be alone, Rose. But you know that, don't you?" He said desperately, forcing a tight smile on his face. "You know me, cos you're brilliant! You're strong, you're smart—to hell with human A-Levels, eh?" He begged. "You're so amazing. You were kind, Rose. You were kind to an old man who didn't give you the thought you deserved until it was too late. And I'm so, so sorry. So sorry. But you need to stay with me, because I have to finish that sentence! I tried to tell you—right before I lost you, Rose. But I don't think you heard me—"

The Doctor's head was spinning, his mouth was dry, his hearts were pounding—

"I love you, Rose!" He looked down at her frantically, waiting for her eyes to either light up with joy or darken with rejection. But they did neither—in fact, they glazed over and her chest stilled. For a moment, he's struck dumb and confused. Is that good or bad?

Then he realizes that she's gone.

Then, in a true selfish Doctor fashion, he realizes that she saved his life.

He can't speak, he can't process. He wants to bury his face in her hair and cry, but that's a cliche. Rose hated cliches.

Hated.

 _Oh_. He wished she would hate them again. So he can only stare at her as tears swell like fire in his eyes, trying in no way to ward them off as words rise in his throat like bile.

"I...I love you," he whispered again. The words fell from his lips like pieces of broken glass. "Rose!" He begs for her to listen. "Did you hear me? I love you! I love you! I  _mean_  it!" He almost laughs at how childish he sounds, but it catches like razors in his throat.

But he does. He absolutely does.

More tears burst in his eyes, distorting Rose's beautiful face into an unrecognizable state and twisting the light around her so that it appears she's glowing. He furiously scrubs the tears away with a grunt, livid at the things that would hide her from him.

He looks at her again, eyes clear...and she's still  _glowing_.

Golden light begins to shimmer on her skin like luminescent mist and he can only stare as he flashes back to a time when he was big eared and leather clad, when she took the power of the universe into her human mind and used it to save him.

He dimly hears shouting in his ear—Jack—and feels fingers scrape his skin as they clench a hold into his jacket and drag him away from her, leaving her on the cold floor—alone—he instinctively tries to escape, tries to reach her—

There's a violent burst of light—

And suddenly Rose is sitting up, completely uninjured and gasping desperately for breath, dazed and disoriented.

She's  _alive_.

The Doctor's gone limp and Jack's fingers are still burrowing into his back. They both stare like fools—gawking at this impossible reality before them. They probably would have questioned it, too, but their Rose beats them to it, catching her breath and turning to look at them as she rises on shaky feet. The still-wet blood is shining gruesomely on her jacket, but that's the only sign that something had ever gone wrong. She smiles, her lips slightly crooked. "I told you so, Jack," she says, slightly breathless. "Bad Wolf."

—•—•—

"What do you mean, 'there's no breaches in the cages?!'"

Rose, her ears still sensitive from her lifetime of silence, flinched slightly at Jack's enraged, booming voice. He paced the length of the floor with a vengeance, his cheek buried in his mobile as he snarled frustrated profanities at Gwen and Owen from their position in the basement weevil cages, trying to find out how the rogue one escaped.

No luck yet.

The Doctor is standing behind her from the chair she's sitting in, his hands planted firmly on her shoulders. Every time Jack yells, the pressure of his fingers increases fractionally, as if he's afraid she's going to melt away. Rose likes the security the gesture brings—even if the bones in her shoulders are nearing the breaking point.

But her head is swimming with more important matters. He said...the Doctor had said he loved her. Even thinking it brought mixed onslaughts of ecstasy and doubt. Did he mean it? Or had he just said it because he thought she was dying? 

She hated cliches.

And yet, Rose had never expected a second chance at life. She was expecting to die, actually. The action that made her shove the Doctor away was pure instinct, as well. She wasn't going to  _let him_  die. He couldn't if she could help it. It wasn't like those regenerations were unlimited, either. If he had changed yet again...it meant he must be near his last one.

But then again...how long had it been? For him? For her? Jack had told her that she'd been gone for a little over a year, but that's not how it's worked, did it? What really happened was that she came out at the point in time that was a little over a year after her disappearance. She could have been in the void for a million years and she wouldn't know the difference. But the Doctor...it could have been even longer for him. How many other adventures had he experienced? How many people had he met? Who...who had he fallen in love with? Because he had too, didn't he? All that time, there must have been someone who had caught his eye and his hearts.

"Rose?" The Doctor spoke softly in her ear, and she swiveled around to look him in his green eyes.

He was frowning at her slightly—something that she knew meant that his mind was racing a bazillion miles an hour (some things never changed). "Can...is it alright if I do a few quick tests? On your DNA?" He must have anticipated her strong repulsion of needles, because he rushed in on a way that Rose, frankly, found quite adorable, "I—I mean, it wouldn't hurt. I'd be quick, and I just need a little blood sample. If you don't want to it's alright, I just wanted to make sure—"

"Yeah, yeah," she chuckled, realizing he needed someone to cut him off. "It's...it's fine, I guess."

He gave her a small smile that made his eccentric eyes light up—and Rose felt her heart rate increase. He took her hand (just like old times) and pulled her towards the TARDIS which had docked itself within the hub. She passed through those blue doors, and her heart stopped.

"Oh..." She breathed, transfixed. "She's  _beautiful_." The greenish hue and reaching coral is gone, replaced by a more...mechanical theme. She looks more like some eccentric machine, some crazy wonderful invention, a masterpiece of a prototype. The whole room is bathed in a bright, cheerful blue and Rose is grinning at it all, grinning because it's one of the most fascinating things she's ever seen.

She jumps when the lights flicker, and she looks at the Doctor for an explanation—but he's not looking at her. He's staring straight up, beaming at his TARDIS before meeting Rose's eyes. "She remembers you!" He chuckled, squeezing her hand. "Not surprised, though," he adds casually, and Rose's heart leaps. "You're not easy to forget."

With this statement, he abruptly dragged her down one of the tunneling hallways and into a room that resembled a doctor's office...if normal doctors had arrays of objects that looked like mind puzzles littering their tables. As the Doctor sat her down in a chair and busied himself with whatever, Rose saw a gizmo that strongly resembled a Rubix cube—except it was entirely black and levitating about an inch off the surface of the counter top.

_An inanimate object with a low-level gravitational repelling field by aligning synthetic axons—_

Rose gasped and the stream of technobabble stopped short.

What...what was that? For an instant, everything had made perfect, clarifying sense. For a moment, she had understood exactly how a black cube could float in nothing as easily as she could comprehend why it rained or how to walk. But now it was back to being a mystery, like someone had slammed the door in her face.

"Rose?"

Feeling an annoying sensation of déjà vu, Rose met the Doctor's eyes. He smiled at her gently.

"I'll be quick. Promise." It was then Rose noticed the syringe in his hand. He gently took her thin forearm and turned it so that the paler underside faced up when he frowned and his eyes clouded with confusion. He hesitated, as if something was wrong.

"What?" She asked tersely, her heartbeat already bolting with mere prospect of the needle in his grasp.

"It's..." His eye brows drew together. "What happened here?" He lightly ran his thumb over the minuscule pockmark on the pale, tender flesh that had come from—

"Oh!" She said, relieved. "That's from Owen—Jack's medical bloke. He took a blood sample earlier." The bandage must have fallen off in the confusion. But she didn't understand her Doctor's confusion as he continued to pout at the small dot as if it had caused him personal offense. "What is it?" She asked.

"You were attacked by a monster. The Weevil, or whatever it was—it ripped open your trachea." His voice was a hushed, tight whisper.

"Yeah?" She whispered, playing along. She fought a smile. Did he think a little needle was going to hurt her now?

"Yeah," the Doctor said hollowly. "And you were healed." He set down the syringe (much to Rose's relief) and used his free hand lightly touch the formerly affected area of her neck (Rose stayed absolutely still as his fingers sent goosebumps down her skin). "Utterly and completely healed," he said again. "No scarring whatsoever."

Worry was starting to pulse in Rose's chest. What was he getting at?

"I saw your medical report," the Doctor mumbled. "Bruising. It said you had moderate bruising on your elbows from when you landed out of the rift—" his grip tightened on her wrist and shoved up her sleeve further to stare at her elbow—her unbruised, unmarked elbow. "Bruising...that would  _definitely_  take longer than ten hours to heal."

"So?" Rose was started to get impatient. "The bruising probably fixed itself with the weevil wound. What are you getting at, Doctor?"

"Healing," he muttered again, seemingly impervious to her words. "You were healed of all bruising, flesh wounds, nerve damage—but not a  _tiny_  little prick on your skin!" He released her arm and inspected her neck again. "That's absurd. The needle mark should be gone! Because—because what fixed was simple energy. Unrefined, one-track, simple exothermic reactions, because that's what the heart of the TARDIS is! But to heal the greater wounds but leave the ones that pose no threat to you—that's intelligent, constructive medicine. That's—that's— _oh! Rose!_  That's what the Bad Wolf is! A living, evolving—" he froze.

"W—what?" Asked Rose, smiling uncertainly. "C'mon, you can't just leave it there!"

" _Evolving_..." He whispered, staring at Rose but not seeing her. "Intelligent, evolving...being Rose, but also being a separate signature from Rose...to survive, it—"

"Doctor," Rose pleaded.

Almost as if he was in a trance, he finally met her eyes and his hands slowly lifted from her shoulder and neck and gently cradled her cheeks. "The only was you could have survived the void...why you don't remember it...the only way you could have survived the weevil attack...oh,  _Rose_..."

"What?" She asked desperately. "Doctor, what?!"

"Rose..." He said again.

"You're turning into a Time Lord."


End file.
